10- Splinters and Heartwood
by Chronic Guardian
Summary: A kinda-sorta-maybe fabled look into the rise and fall of one era and the beginning of another. Dramatized for effect. [Twelve Shots of Summer]


**Splinters and Heartwood**

By Chronic Guardian

**A/N: Written for the Twelve Shots of Summer Week 10(Huge Swords).**

**Herein we have a tale, it seems,**

**That's better suited to yester-week.**

**A tale of fancy, wit, and wim,**

**Of things we know, but not by name.**

**A chronicle of legends won,**

**and prophecy of yet-to-comes.**

**Herein we offer, now and then,**

**A strange little story for the week of ten.**

**Regards,**

**-CG**

Once upon a time, in the far away land of Square, there sprouted a wondrous tree. At first it appeared as no more than a sapling with a voracious appetite for sunlight, sprouting as many leaves as it could to soak in the golden rays that fell upon its lonely hill. It soon stood as tall as a man, watching over the flowing fields of whisper weed while moogles and other fantastic creatures hurried on by. To them it was simply a novelty.

However, about a year later, it was discovered a second time why the tree was a miracle.

Most trees in the region would give you apples, lemons, or bananas (or, if you're lucky, Apricots and Pecans). This tree didn't grow fruit.

It grew swords.

The first one was for a red headed farmboy from the Cornelia province. He came to the tree every day after his chores to rest in its shade and whisper to the whisper weeds his dreams of someday becoming a hero. Well, the whisper weeds whispered it amongst themselves for a good while before finally whispering it back to the tree. You see, the tree had been planted accidentally by a Green Wizard (back in the day when Green Magic was its own profession) who cursed his golden apple for not being an apricot before discarding its core on the roadside. "If ye kinnae grew ahpricoots, thin may ye nae grow nae fruit at all!" the wizard had declared, dashing the apple with a befuddling mix of altering spells. So then, about a half-year later at the behest of the whisper weeds, the tree decided that if it wouldn't grow fruits, it would grow something else people needed.

It would grow swords.

So, gathering together every little ounce of convoluted Green Magic it had in its veins, the tree began to work.

Day in and day out, it shaped and nourished and crafted in its own branches; drawing in minerals from the soil and purifying them within its heartwood. By the end of the week, it had produced a plain dirk.

The farmboy, upon seeing the dirk, had immediately plucked it from the branches, asked the whisper weeds if it belonged to anyone, and hurried home delighted when they had answered no. And although he would soon win bigger and better blades, that first dirk was what started the farm boy down the path to stardom as a Warrior of Light.

When the people of Square heard of the magical sword tree, they thought it was a joke. Well, everyone who was old enough to think so, anyway. Many youths thereon came to the tree, bearing to it their passion and pride in the hopes that it would craft a sword for them as well. And it did. Five more blades, this time for heroes patient enough to let the tree grow proper longswords instead of measly dirks (although there were some off-shoot heroes known to poach daggers from its limbs).

By the sixth blade, the tree had really perfected its craft. Filled with more passion and hope than ever before by the girl that had requested it, the resulting sword was adorned with a golden hilt and the life magic of the tree itself, allowing it to grow with the users vitality. Wonderfully pleased, the hero dubbed it "Ultima" and blessed the tree for its efforts.

About that time, after some calamitous upheaval or another, the sword tree was then purported to change its nature. See, during the last conflict it had been sought out by a nasty, floppy mustached emperor who declared it a magical artifact that his men needed to harvest. Fortunately, it was only a passing decision, because the emperor fell off a floating continent before he could act on it and the next guy in line was more concerned with zapping random towns with a giant ray of laser magic.

Anyway, after the world was nearly split in two, the tree found itself by the shore in fresh soil by a quiet little farming town called Banora. It had used most of its heartwood to craft the Ultima Weapon, and thus decided that perhaps it was time to retire and simply be another not-apricot tree.

But the longer it sat in the beachy soil, the more it came to realize that fate had other plans. For the tree had now been planted above a rich deposit of Lifestream energy; and where there is Lifestream, things will seldom keep to themselves for long.

Once again, a boy came to rest in its shade. He came with the local crop, Banora Whites, commonly known as "Dumb Apples", and spoke of dreams and honor so deep that the tree couldn't help but be moved. So, grudgingly, it set about making the greatest blade it could conceive. A blade to surpass all notion, wieldable only by the most stalwart and hearty of men. When it was finished, it came to be known as the Buster Sword.

After that, more heroes would come to water the tree with their hopes and dreams, each eager for a blade as great as the fabled Buster Sword, which overshadowed even the legends of the Ultima Weapon. But after a mopy teenager, a thief of dubious intent, and perhaps the most obnoxiously self-glorifying sports star ever to appear in a fantasy adventure, the tree didn't quite feel like it had the same stuff any more. People were becoming more obsessed with how the swords looked rather than their actual function, and even those that did care how they worked would often say things like "They sure don't make 'em like they used to".

The tree, who had really done its honest best, was sick of hearing such things. So it stopped growing swords altogether. _See if _I_ ever forge another Lionheart or Masamune_, it thought spitefully. Besides, it was the people's own fault for misplacing the swords that were already made. What did they expect the tree to do about it? If they wanted swords like that that badly, they could just go off on a quest to find them.

So, for a time after forging Brotherhood and its twin, Caladbolg, the tree just sat there sulking as the reservoir of Lifestream faded to but a memory and Mist and Pyreflies filled the air. The bark on the tree grew soft and mossy, and to all appearances it was just another fruitless tree watching the dusk of the era with sleepy eyes.

Leaves drooped. Summer turned to autumn, turned to winter. Slowly, the world fell into darkness. Dreams rose and fell and hope became a campfire fantasy.

And still the tree sat on the beach, sleeping while the heroes of the world prayed for the gift of salvation to their cause.

Then, one day, on a quiet afternoon just after a storm, just about the time children came out to play in the puddles, a boy came to the tree and climbed its branches. He snuggled himself up into the cradle of its latticed reach and sat there silently, watching the world from his roost.

"You know," the boy eventually mumbled. "You may not grow fruit or anything, but your branches feel safe and strong. It's a dark, dark world out there. Nice that there's somewhere safe left."

The tree, having seldom been directly complimented like this, perked up slightly, but still kept half a knot open for the faintest hint of manipulative smooth talk.

"Gosh, I wish there were more trees like this," the boy went on. "More safe places over the world. Places where people can go without having to wade through a sea of mud and monsters. The world needs places like that.

"Which..." the boy shifted and looked down through the branches, examining the main trunk, "is kinda funny when you think about it. I mean, a tree? The safest place in the world? Everybody these days seems more interested in giant swords to keep them safe. I'd just take a tree. Well, y'know, if I could bring it with me."

The tree trembled in its heart wood, anxious and moved by the boy's appreciation.

"So... you mind if I have a twig to remember ya by?" the boy asked, running his hands along the bark. "Not anything living that'll hurt to break off, just a little something to remind me there's a safe place to come back to when things get dicey out there."

Something to remember it by? Goodness. The only things people ever wanted from the tree were things that it wasn't. Could this boy be the key to a new beginning? A someone who actually wanted what the tree was meant to be? The tree felt its magic awakening again, stirring, striving, seeking for a way out. Channeling it all into a single branch, the tree let the imbued limb fall with a crisp snap into the patchy grass below.

"Oh!" The boy noticed and dropped down after it, landing with a heavy thud before slowly collecting himself up to grab the prize. "Well! It's almost as if you were listening, tree!" he exclaimed, beaming. "I shall keep this stick as my prize! To me, it shall be as great as the legendary Ultima Weapon."

Trotting home triumphantly, the boy went away into the dusk with a broad grin on his face.

Inside, the tree also smiled as it reflected on the fate it had bestowed on the boy.

Nearly a month later, the branch would grow into a peculiar weapon shaped as a key; a key to the future. By the year's end it had grown to the length of the famed buster sword and had indeed claimed the name Ultima for itself. People far and wide spoke of the key-shaped-blade and the wondrous magics it held within to slay evil and bring hope. But far away on a quiet hill, a tree dreamed not of the blade, but the boy who wielded it. For that was what truly made it great.

_Fin_

**A/N: I feel like I might've cut a little too loose with this one and wandered straight into the realm of allegory, but I like how the tone came out so I guess I'll let it be. This one goes out to all the wonderful writers of TSoS, who are so much more than just fantastically written stories, but also fantastically wonderful people. I know I went cliché on you with this one, but the cheesiness needed to happen, and it was getting late, and all the other excuses came along also. So, there you have it and here we are. Thanks for reading the ramble people, but take heed: the end is near. Only two weeks remain for the Twelve Shots of Summer. May it find a worthy end as we too face a new dawn.**

**Maniacally yours,**

**-CG**


End file.
